


Wish

by Hanaasbananas



Series: Hanaa's Bollywood Playlist [10]
Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, F/M, POV Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir, So much angst, my sincerest apologies, no beta we die like men, seriously guys this is not a happy story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28464267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hanaasbananas/pseuds/Hanaasbananas
Summary: What does a man say to the love of his life as she lays dying in his arms? How many times does he say "I love you" for it to ever be enough? To make up for a lifetime?
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug
Series: Hanaa's Bollywood Playlist [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818835
Comments: 21
Kudos: 114





	Wish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theladyfae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladyfae/gifts).



> Had this idea when me and fae were talking bollywood in the Guild and here we are. Sorry fae, I promise the YJHD fic will be much, much fluffier!
> 
> Inspired by: [Jab Tak Hai Jaan Poem](https://youtu.be/Z1kW1MbNI5Y) but in true Hanaa fashion, this fic ended up barely following the poem at all. Still, listen to it-it's a good poem, and SRK's voice just makes it better.

The early morning sunlight filters in through the window, unhindered by the bed sheet haphazardly thrown over the curtain rail in lieu of proper curtains. Ordinarily, this would have disturbed the occupant of the room, but Adrien Agreste had been awake for hours already. He lies motionless on his side, watching the progress of a single sunbeam as it makes its way across the floor to his bed. 

Despite the many billboards across Paris with his face plastered on them, many people would have a hard time recognising the man if they saw him now. Adrien’s normally vibrant green eyes are dull and red rimmed, the bags underneath them speaking of a deep seated exhaustion; usually clean shaven, his face is covered in a weeks worth of stubble and his skin no longer glows a healthy tan, but is sallow, and dull. 

Not that he cares about his appearance. How could he? With  _ her _ gone…

Abruptly, his phone rings, shattering the fragile silence as it does every morning. Adrien doesn’t even flinch at the disturbance, grabbing his phone and declining the call. Before he can throw it back under the duvet though, his thumb pauses, hovering over the photo that is his lockscreen.

Marinette looks back at him over her shoulder, her blue eyes sparkling with mirth as she laughed at something he’d said, her tongue poking out between her teeth. It had been a windy day, he remembers, suddenly. Marinette had complained about her inky hair flying around her face and her skin had been freezing to the touch when he’d cupped her cheeks in his palms, sliding his fingers through her hair when he grinned and warmed his lips with his own. 

Adrien remembers it all.

He couldn’t forget it even if he tried, for as long as he lived, he would never forget the mischief in her eyes, the laughter that bubbled in her chest and exploded out of her, bright and cheerful and infectious, making his heart swell with affection whenever he heard it. 

And now he’ll never hear it again.

His thumb traces over the photo again for a brief second and then suddenly, he tosses the phone across the room where it lands with a dull  _ thunk _ , where Marinette’s face cannot taunt him anymore. Feeling a sob build up in his throat, Adrien shoves a fist in his mouth, screwing his eyes shut and biting down hard as he yells, tears leaking out from his eyes. 

How could she leave him? How could she ever believe that he would be able to go on without her? Even now, her side of the bed remains untouched, her book lying face down on the bedside table, waiting for her to pick it up again. 

Adrien’s cries are deafening in the silent apartment, tearing from his throat and broken only by ragged gasps for air as he pushes the heels of his palms into his eyes in a futile effort to stem the flow of tears. 

There was a time when he had everything, now he has nothing at all. 

* * *

_ “Adrien…” her voice pierces through his consciousness, and he ignores the strange urgency in the back of his mind that tells him something is wrong. Instead, he hums contentedly, enjoying the way Marinette’s fingers card through his hair, scratching softly at his scalp.  _

_ She laughs at his behaviour, but there’s something  _ off  _ about her voice and his brow furrows. “Adrien, wake up,” she says again, shaking his shoulder gently and there’s  _ definitely  _ a hitch in her throat now, as though she’s holding back tears. “Adrien please. I want to say goodbye.” _

_ Goodbye? What— _

_ He opens his eyes then, a confused frown twisting at his lips when he sees Marinette peering worriedly down at him, a beatific smile breaking out across her face when she meets his eyes. “You’re up!”  _

_ “Wh—” he coughs. Clears his throat, starts again. “What happened? Where are we?” All he remembers is coming to father’s with Marinette for lunch and then...and then— _

_ Adrien jerks up, his hand coming to land on his stomach where father’s sword had pierced his flesh, but despite his torn shirt, the skin beneath it is smooth and unblemished. But how…? He’d collapsed, he remembers now, had scrabbled for Marinette as father stood above him, ready to deliver the final blow, had heard her shriek even as his eyes slipped shut in acceptance. _

_ He had been  _ dying,  _ Adrien is certain of it, so then what had saved him? _

_ For the first time, since he woke up Adrien takes in the room around them. It looks like an explosion has hit it-fathers desk, and shelves have been thrown against the wall, and part of the ceiling and wall have crumbled, raining plaster down on them. Taking in the destruction, the rubble and smoke, he realises suddenly that the only part of the room that is unscathed is the floor beneath them.  _

_ “Marinette,” he says slowly, dread pooling in his stomach as he takes in the tightness around her eyes, the way her lips are pressed tightly into a thin line and, looking down, the way her hand is clamped over her stomach. “ _ what have you done?”

* * *

Adrien doesn’t stick around after the funeral. 

Standing on the other side of the street, he sees Tom, his arm around Sabine, their eyes red and swollen, both looking as though the only thing holding them up is the other. Alya is speaking quietly to them, her usually wild hair scraped back into a severe ponytail. He steps quickly into the shadows when she glances up and doesn’t re-emerge until she turns away.

Adrien’s own eyes are dry, his back ramrod straight _ — _ he might look completely unaffected if it wasn’t for the dark circles underneath his eyes, and the sunken cheeks that are exposed now that he’s shaved for the occasion. Marinette  _ had  _ always preferred him clean shaven after all. 

Not that anyone had seen him-or paid attention to him if they had. He’d gone in after everyone else, slipping into a seat at the back where his presence wouldn’t be noticed. It had been a good thing he had as well. Marinette’s parents barely seemed to pay attention to what was being said, but he’d seen Alya begin to fidget in her seat, and he’d had to resist the urge to punch something as well.

The pastor had spoken of  _ a young woman, lost at the prime of her life,  _ speaking of her talents and accomplishments, as if that had been all that Marinette was, turning her into something that she wasn’t.

That man hadn’t known Marinette. Hadn’t known all the things Adrien loved about her—would love for the rest of his life. 

He hadn’t known about the way she pulled him out to dance in the rain; how she’d start games of tag with him when she knew he’d had a long day, running across the rooftops of the city; how she’d stay up too late sewing and he had to carry her to bed; how she made a game of hiding her signature in increasingly obscure places on all her designs; how she’d read him her favourite passages from whichever book she was reading and how she never took herself too seriously her laugh always ringing out in their apartment, bright and happy. 

He hadn’t known about how Marinette loved. Wholly and unconditionally, with everything that she was. How she’d loved him enough to give her life for his. 

In his periphery, Adrien notices a small movement beside him and he sighs. So much for not being recognised. Turning to address whoever has joined him, the words freeze in his throat as he meets Master Fu’s eyes. Plagg and Tikki are hovering beside him, watching him anxiously but as Fu opens his mouth to speak, Adrien brings up a hand. 

“Don’t.” his voice is hard and he doesn’t give the man a chance to respond, spinning on his heel and stalking in the opposite direction before he says something he’ll regret. 

There are no words to describe this feeling. This hate, and guilt and rage and despair, each fighting for dominance inside him. It is as though with Marinette gone, his chest has been cleaved in two and the heart that belonged to her pulled from within; the rest of his guts and organs tumbling out, seeping into his starched shirt, splattering his dress shoes, staining everything on the way down and burning his skin like acid; leaving him a hollow shell, bleached clean and empty. 

He hasn’t seen Master Fu since  _ that  _ night when he’d dropped off all of the miraculous and fled without an explanation, too distraught to do anything other than run away from it all. Seeing Fu now, on  _ today  _ of all days is too much, and he struggles beneath the weight of his emotions. 

So he keeps walking, as though he can outrun it all. 

(He never can.) 

But now Plagg is flying beside him, doggedly persistent as always, and Adrien is tired of running, tired of keeping everything bottled up inside, choking his emotions down like bile, where they fester and rot in his belly, poisoning him from the inside out.

There is a reason that Adrien has not tried to seek out his old companion. A reason he never put the ring back on, returned Plagg without saying goodbye and didn’t look back. And he hadn’t wanted to confront it for a long, long time. 

Abruptly, Adrien veers into a nearby alley, whirling on Plagg as soon as they are out of sight. His kwami looks uncharacteristically serious.  _ Good _ , a snide part of his brain whispers and he rocks back on his heels, finally saying the words that have been burning in his throat for days now 

“You should have stopped her,” he hisses.  _ This is your fault _ . The words hang in the air, suspended between them, and Adrien shakes his head, scoffing. He’d thought that making the accusation out loud would have been a relief, but instead, the pressure on his chest seems to increase and a strangled sound escapes his throat-half sob, half laugh. 

“You should have stopped her,” he repeats softly, and walks away.

He doesn’t look back.

* * *

_ The worst part is how  _ good _ he feels.  _

_ Whatever wish Marinette made, it hasn’t just healed his stab wound, but every injury he sustained in the fight. He should be bruised and bleeding, aching all over after everything his body has been put through. Instead, he feels powerful and healthy, as though he can do anything. As if he could take on the world and  _ win. 

_ And yet, the one thing he wants to win, he can’t. He can’t turn back the clock and stop Marinette from making her choice. Can’t switch places with her. Can’t save her life. _

_ He refuses to accept it. “No,” Adrien shakes his head stubbornly, casting his eyes desperately around the room, searching for the dull glint of his miraculous, of Marinette’s earrings, but they are impossible to see beneath the rubble. “There has to be a way to reverse the wish” he gets up, stumbling across the room to dig through the debris. They have to be here somewhere. They  _ have  _ to be.  _

_ “Plagg!” he calls out. “Tikki!” But there is no response.  _

_ “Adrien stop.” _

_ “I just-I just need to find Plagg. He’ll know what to do.” Adrien mutters to himself, barely hearing Marinette over the roaring in his ears. His hands sting from digging, the rubble cutting into his palms but he can’t stop, not until he finds the miraculous and makes things right, he  _ can’t.

_ “Adrien, please. There’s nothing you can-” Marinette cuts off with a sharp cry and Adrien is by her side in an instant, holding her close as she sags against him. His hands are slick with her blood and she struggles to breathe through the pain, her mouth twisted in a grimace.  _

_ “ _ Why,”  _ he asks, “why did you do it?”  _

_ Marinette smiles weakly up at him. “Wouldn’t you have done the same?”  _ __

_ “There has to be something-I won’t-I won’t let you  _ die _ -” he’s already moving, but she grabs at his shirt tightly, holding him in place.  _

_ “You can’t.” She inhales a shaky breath, holding his gaze with her own. Her blue eyes, usually so vibrant, are dull, and glazed over. “Stay with me, please. Hold me?” Marinette’s voice cracks when she admits “I’m scared.” _

_ Adrien has never been able to deny Marinette. Wrapping his arms around her, he lets her curl up against his chest, his tears dripping into her hair. For a long moment, the only sound in the room is Marinette’s laboured breathing, until eventually, she speaks, her voice barely a whisper. “Talk to me.”  _

_ What does a man say to the love of his life as she lays dying in his arms? How many times does he say  _ I love you  _ for it to ever be enough? To make up for a lifetime?  _

_ Slowly, haltingly, he begins, stroking her hair as he speaks. “I was going to propose” he laughs wetly “next week, actually.” Marinette doesn’t respond, but her grip on his shirt tightens and he continues. “Alya is in on it, we were gonna go to dinner, and then- and then I was gonna take you to Françoise Dupont, at the steps where we-where we became friends, remember?”  _

_ He drops a kiss to the top of her head, pressing his lips together to smother the sob that threatens to erupt from his mouth. Marinette’s breaths are coming more slowly now, tiny exhalations he can barely feel, and when he shifts to look at her face, her closed eyelids barely flutter at the movement. The corner of her mouth tilts up slightly, and he continues, forcing himself to speak through the lump in his throat.  _

_ “I thought it would be poetic, you know? Ask you to be my wife in the same place our friendship began.”  _

_ With great effort, Marinette opens her eyes and he watches as they dart across his face like she’s trying to memorise what he looks like, until in his arms, Marinette sighs, for the last time.  _

_ “That sounds nice.” _

* * *

Adrien stands in front of the grave for hours; long after everyone else has gone, long after night has fallen. 

It is only when the sun begins to rise above the horizon, the sky turning a pretty shade of pink, that he moves. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a velvet box, flipping it open to reveal the engagement ring inside. “Today was supposed to be the proposal day,” he says quietly. “I knew you would say yes, but I was still a little nervous. I think that happens to everyone though.”

Crouching down, he plucks the ring from the box and presses it onto the dirt above her grave. “This ring is yours, Marinette. I just wish you were here to say yes.” 


End file.
